Reading: The Demon's Lexicon Sarah Rees Brennan
Of the four of us, H and M had security blankets. Z and I opted for Teddy Bears of a fashion. For M it was a Winnie The Pooh bed sheet. Eventually, fed up with how filthy and cumbersome it was, my mother cut a square from the corner and dubbed it M's "Travel Blankie". H had a blanket from her crib which she still had up until a few years ago (not that she still carried it around. She just had it). As for Z and I, she had the descriptively named "Red Bear" and I had "Mousey" a mouse dressed as Mrs Clause that I received for my first Christmas and still has a place of honour in my bed. Most kids have a security object of some sort growing up. That one special object that, for whatever reason, makes them feel comfortable wherever they are.
Do we grow out of these simple comforts, or do our lives get too complicated to be soothed by the fuzz of a toy against our cheek? My opinion? We transfer those feelings to other things. Gadgets, favorite bands, certain foods. For me it's clothes. Shoes mostly actually, but clothes too. One of my favorite series' The Sisterhood of The Traveling Pants by Anne Brashares is about a pair of jeans that brings a group of friends together. The pants become a symbol of the support they find in each other and become a sort of shared, grown-up security object. M has a sweater that she wore for much of a trip to Cuba that she swears still smells like the all the best parts of the trip.
I find the most comfort, not in the clothes with the softest fabrics, but the ones that make me feel the most comfortable in my own skin and with the best memories attached. Prime example, and my inspiration for this post, is the black bustier-style top and flowing skirt combo I wore today. The top is form fitting with very little give. It perfectly camouflages my problem area (my stomach), but that's also where it is at it's narrowest. The experience puts me in mind of a Victorian lady. Nevertheless, I know I look good in it. I've been told as much. That confidence boost makes me feel a hundred times better than even the comfiest sweats ever could. I suspect I'm not alone in this too. Why else would women continue to endure the discomfort of sky-high heels? The media can't be entirely to blame.